The Widow(48)

“She says she found it in your van, Glen. Why would she say that if it wasn’t true?”

Taylor’s mouth had hardened. “She’s under a lot of pressure.”

“And the cat hair on the paper? Hair from exactly the same type of cat that Bella was playing with that day?”

“For God’s sake. How many gray cats are there in this country? This is ridiculous.”

Taylor turned to his lawyer. “That hair could’ve been floating around anywhere . . . Couldn’t it, Tom?”

Sparkes paused, savoring the rare note of panic in Taylor’s voice. Then he moved on to what he anticipated would be the coup de grace. The moment when Taylor realized he’d been seen and played by the police.

“So, Bigbear, then, Mr. Taylor,” Sparkes said.

Taylor’s mouth had fallen open, then snapped shut. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve been down in the woods, looking for friends. Finding friends, haven’t you? But we’ve met Goldilocks, too.”

Taylor’s feet started tapping, and he stared at his lap. His default position.

At his side, Tom Payne looked mystified by the turn in the questions and interrupted. “I’d like a few moments with my client, please.”

Five minutes later, the pair had their story straight.

“It was a private fantasy between two consenting adults,” Glen Taylor said. “I was under a lot of stress.”

“Who was the baby girl with a name beginning with B, Glen?”

“It was a private fantasy between two consenting adults.”

“Was it Bella?”

“It was a private fantasy—”

“What have you done with Bella?”

“It was a private fantasy . . .”

When they charged him, he stopped mumbling about his private fantasy and looked the detective in the eye.

“You’re making a terrible mistake, Mr. Sparkes.”

It was the last thing he said before he was locked up to await trial.

A winter on remand did not persuade him to cooperate, and on February 11, 2008, Glen Taylor stood in the Old Bailey to deliver his plea of not guilty to abduction in a loud and steady voice. He sat down, barely acknowledging the prison officers on either side as he fixed his gaze on the detective inspector making his way to the witness box.

Sparkes felt the power of Taylor’s stare boring into the back of his head and tried to collect himself before he took the oath. There was the slightest of tremors in his voice as he spoke the words on the card, but he went on to give his evidence in chief competently, keeping his answers short, clear, and humble.

The months of footslogging, chasing, heavy lifting, checking, questioning, and stacking up the evidence were condensed into a short performance before a small and select audience and a battery of critics.

Chief among them was Glen Taylor’s defense barrister, a patrician warhorse in ancient, fraying wig and gown, who stood up to cross-examine him.

The jury of eight men and four women, winnowed by the defense to ensure male sensibilities and sympathies were in the majority, turned their heads like a patch of sunflowers to focus on him.

The barrister, Charles Sanderson QC, stood with one hand in his pocket, his notes in the other. He exuded confidence as he began his attempt to undermine some of the nuggets of evidence and plant doubt in the jury’s collective consciousness.

“When did the witness Mr. Spencer make a note about the blue van? Was it before he fabricated the long-haired man sighting?”

“Mr. Spencer was mistaken about the sighting. He has admitted that,” Sparkes said, keeping his voice level.

“Yes, I see.”

“His evidence will be that he wrote down that he saw what he thought was Peter Tredwell’s blue van when he made his notes on the afternoon of October the second.”

“And he is sure he didn’t fabricate—sorry, make a mistake—about seeing a blue van?”

“Yes, he is sure. He will tell you himself when he gives evidence.”

“I see . . .”

“Now, how far away was the witness when he saw the blue panel van . . . ?”

“And does Mr. Spencer wear glasses . . . ?”

“I see . . .”

“And how many blue panel vans are there on the road in the UK, Inspector . . . ?”

“I see . . .”

It was the “I sees” that did the damage, “I see” meaning “Oh dear, another point to us.”

Chip, chip, chip. Sparkes parried the blows patiently. He’d faced a number of Sandersons over the years—“Old Boy” show-offs—and knew this sort of grandstanding didn’t always play well with a jury.

They reached the sweet-paper discovery, and Sanderson took the expected line about the chances of contamination of evidence.

“Detective Inspector, how long was the sweet paper in Jean Taylor’s coat pocket?”

Sparkes kept his voice steady, making sure he looked across at the jurors to emphasize the point. “Eight months, we believe. She said in her statement that she found it in the van on December the seventeenth. It was the only time she was allowed to go on a delivery with her husband, so she remembers it well.”

“Eight months? That’s a long time to gather other fluff and hair, isn’t it?”